The Edelweiss Bleeds
by MeadowLark4491
Summary: The Incident, with a capital "I," was a foolish investment that I wish with all my being I hadn't made, but there's no changing the past.  An AU depicting the dissolution of the Austro-Hungarian empire and the aftermath of WW1. Human Names, Austria's POV.
1. The Papers

Disclaimer: The characters within the following story are not mine, their dialogue is mine though. The plot itself is not entirely mine either due to it being loosely based off of the Treaty of Saint-Germain-en-Laye.

A/N: The characters are referred to by their human names (Elisa being the shortened version of Hungary's).

* * *

"Elisa!" The only answer I receive is the echo of my own voice off the paneled walls. I've looked everywhere; she isn't anywhere to be found. My eyes drift over the face of the grandfather clock as I pass it on my way through the upper halls, the third time I've checked this wing. I've been through this blasted mansion three times in the past six hours, confirming again and again what I already know: my wife isn't here. I woke this morning to find her absent, which isn't unusual. What is strange is that I haven't heard from her in the past eight hours.

I don't even know where to begin looking in the grounds. Perhaps the stables. At least then I'll know if she took a horse, or is on foot. The smooth wood of the curving banister is cool under my hand, my steps muffled by the dark red runner underfoot. I'm halfway down the stairs, still considering the best way to search the property on my own (the servants have the day off while Elisa and I decide which ones will have to be let go), when an imperious knock comes at the front door. The authority it carries makes me pause. Hesitating to check my appearance in the mirror—no need for whoever it is to see my worry—I straighten my cravat and smooth down my dark hair as best I can. Stepping away from the mirror I turn and face the suddenly foreboding door.

My hand rests on the curving metal handle for nearly a full minute without motion. The edelweiss, my family's flower, carved in it is reassuring in its solidity. I open the door—hoping that it's Elisa, but the next instant I dismiss that thought as ludicrous. This is her house as much as it is mine—she would have no reason for knocking.

Standing on my front step are two men I never expected to see together: Arthur Kirkland, a distant cousin on my mother's side, and Francis Bonnefoy, an egotistical rakehell who Arthur spends much of his time fighting with. Neither is dressed for a social visit.

Francis looks as though he has just rolled out of some woman's bed, likely to avoid her husband. His clothes are rumpled and his blond hair hangs to his shoulders, not even pulled back in a messy queue. He has a rose in his buttonhole that looks like…my gaze strays to the rose bush by the door. Of course. Leave it to Francis to steal someone _else_'s flowers for a boutonniere. The cocky smile he's wearing, surrounded by a shadowing of stubble, is far too victorious for my liking.

Arthur, looking no more prepared for social visits than Francis, is dressed in _tweed_ of all things. He looks as though he's just come from bird hunting; a thistle caught on his sleeve appears to confirm that. His eyebrows, I'm certain they're actually caterpillars of some sort, are drawn together in a frown, which bodes slightly better than Francis' smirk—it's an expression less likely to herald mischief.

I suppose it's only right that I determine if there's a reason these two have arrived on my front step before insisting they leave. Brushing back a stubborn lock of hair from in front of my eyes, using it as an excuse to make sure my mask in impervious to their scrutiny, I finally speak. "May I help you, Gentlemen?"

My hand, resting on the inside of the door, is receiving direct orders to begin closing the portal, courtesy be hanged, when Arthur's voice stops me. "We need to speak with you regarding your wife."

My arm stops in its motion without a conscious thought. Opening the door I step aside to allow the two men passage. What on earth could they have to say about Elisa? Do they know where she is? Good Lord, surely they can see how anxious I am. A brief glance in the mirror on my way past assures me that the mask remains solidly in place. Before I realize it I've lead them into the parlor.

Of all the rooms in the mansion the parlor is the one I am most comfortable in. My grand piano stands sentry near the large windows on the east side of the room. The south-facing windows lend themselves to much light catching when the drapes are pulled back. Across the room in the north wall is the large fireplace, my family crest carved on either side—a large eagle, a powerful bird—the hearth itself has small edelweiss etched into the stonework. Francis and Arthur sit down on the furthest most points of the red velvet settee while I take the matching chair across from them. I can almost feel the instrument behind me and out of the corner of my eye I see my violin. With this reassurance I finally manage to speak calmly. "Now, what's this about Elisa?"

They exchange a long look; apparently whatever they have to say is bad news, although Francis' expression suggests otherwise. Arthur finally answers my question. "She has requested that we see to her interests in this matter."

She's spoken with them? What on earth are they talking about? Where's my wife? The only servant still on the grounds, one of the maids, slips in quietly and sets down a tea tray before exiting as quietly as she came. To gain time to gather my thoughts and better calm my confusion, I pour three cups, picking up one and taking a small sip before speaking, one eyebrow carefully arched. "What matter?"

Francis answers before Arthur can, a mocking laugh ill-concealed in his baritone voice. "The divorce."

That can_not_ be what he just said. I _must_ have heard him wrong. "The what?"

Arthur calmly withdraws a pipe, striking a matchstick on the bottom of his shoe, and attempts to light that vile thing as he answers. "The divorce. In lieu of that an official annulment."

This can't be happening. I can't lose her. She can't honestly be leaving. What reason could she have for this? I manage, barely, to gather myself. A reassuring glance toward my violin and I speak. "On what grounds?"

Arthur, still busy trying to light his bloody pipe, nods to Francis who willingly answers me. "Neglect. If it comes to an annulment it will be on the grounds of coercion."

The mask slips and I'm on my feet in an instant, indignation lacing my tone. "Coercion! How dare you come in here with these accusations? I've been nothing but devoted to her and I certainly didn't coerce her into marriage!" The fact that the two men most notorious for their constant disagreement have _both _decided that I am in the wrong and are the bearers of this news is a well calculated insult. I know Arthur never approved of my marriage, but to stoop as low as to come with _Francis_? I always thought that if it came to this I would be the one with the greater number of allies. After all, she came to my house as a servant when her father died and his lands passed to _my_ father. She remained in the working class for years. Gradually she grew into a trusted worker and from there into a friend. When I'd offered to bring her out of that position into marriage she'd agreed, though few of my friends did.

Arthur, that damned pipe clenched in his teeth, withdraws a packet of papers, extending them to me as Francis rises, moving off to my left, toward the windows and my violin stand. My attention following him, I barely hear Arthur's biting comment: "After the Incident can you honestly tell us you have her interest at heart?"

The force with which I take the papers from him startles us both. The Incident, with a capital "I," cost Elisa and I almost everything. It was a foolish investment that I wish with all my being I hadn't made, but there's no changing the past. My gaze scans over the papers as I flip through them: an affidavit in Elisa's handwriting affirming my supposed neglect, a statement of the requirements for each party, and an agreement to the dissolution of the marriage that only awaits my signature to make it legal. I turn back to the requirements, making sure it's not a fault with my glasses as I re-read them. My eyes rise to meet Arthur's green ones. "That land is mine."

"It's not in your name." I turn to look at Francis, finding him a little too close to my Stradivarius.

"Don't touch that." My instinctive response regards my violin before my mind returns to the matter at hand. "The land was part of her father's debt to my family."

"But it was never signed into your name." He meets my eyes challengingly as he plucks the E string, the note sounding pure in contrast to his vicious smirk.

I'm by his side, my fingers closing around the neck of the violin abruptly. Removing it from its stand I step away from Francis, the better to keep my instrument from his grip. My argument remains adamant, my eyes lock on him, daring him to counter it. "It's not in her name either. It was payment for a debt and so belongs to me."

To my surprise it is not he, but Arthur who speaks. "Do you have the papers to prove that?"

I turn. There's something ironic in the position that Arthur now holds. He stands in front of the mantelpiece, before my family crest, and it appears to lend him strength. I face not only the two men who cannot agree, but now even my own house stands for Elisa. I have no choice but to answer him honestly. "No. I do not." It was foolish of my family not to obtain deeds for all the land, but it was never expected that such a problem would arise.

"Then as her father's heir, the land goes to her."

Damn Arthur. Damn Francis. Would that they would leave. "Not all of it. I hold the deed to a portion of that land."

"If you will look over the papers again you'll see that that is provided for."

Moving back to the low table I look over the requirements one more time. I will lose much of my land, what hasn't already been sold off for the debts incurred by the Incident. I am also to pay the acting attorneys in this situation; I suppose that explains why Arthur and Francis are willing to work together with such enthusiasm. Ah, here it is. The three fields on the westernmost part of Elisa's land are to remain in my hands. Good, a small victory out of this whole bloody mess. I hear my voice before I realize I've opened my mouth. "I need to speak with her."

"She doesn't wish to see you." Arthur's tenor echoes around the room—a death knell to my hopes of repairing this mess.

He can't honestly mean what he said. Elisa and I have fought, but not badly enough that she wouldn't even want to speak with me one last time. Just to see if we could reach a more amicable settlement. "Why?" The question holds so much more in it: why won't she see me, why did she send _them_, why is this happening in the first place?

Francis' baritone answers me, "She _claimed_ she didn't want to make this harder on you and that she said everything she needed to already."

My fingers tighten around the neck of the violin; Francis is fiddling with the bow now that I've removed the instrument from his reach. The strings bite into the flesh of my hand and I barely manage to form a coherent sentence from the whirling thoughts I can no longer process quickly enough. "Is this truly what she wishes?"

Arthur responds, knowing me well enough to understand that I will believe him more than Francis. "Yes, Roderich, it is."

There's no way to win this. My grip on the Stradivarius loosens and I set it gently down, seeking a pen and inkwell. My posture is still correct, no need for them to know the level of defeat I feel. I've lost the battle and the war. I finally locate the pen and ink on one of the shelves along the west wall of the room. "There isn't any way to negotiate a different settlement?" I'm grasping at smoke now, and we all know it.

"That depends on how much more you wish to pay for our services." I turn from the shelves to meet Francis' eyes. A strange sort of pity echoes in his words and reflects in his blue gaze.

It's time to sort out the final confusion I have. Looking to Arthur as I return to the papers I speak softly. "Why, Arthur? _Him_ delivering this I can understand: we've always been at odds. But you—my own cousin and a friend for years—why would _you_ do this?"

He can't even meet my eyes as he replies. "I've watched the choices you've made recently, Roderich, and I can't support them. Elisa made her decision and it's a wise one."

Complete precision. He's rehearsed that answer. He knew I'd ask, and he was prepared. Whether it's the truth I don't know. At the moment I don't care. It hurts. Almost more than losing Elisa. Her betrayal is a deep ache, but the loss of a trusted friend? Right when I need them? I shake my head, calming myself so that my hand doesn't shake. If this is what Elisa wants, and it will make her happiest then I'll do it. For her. For her and for no other.

The pen dips into the ink, the excess shaken off. It hovers over the inkwell for a moment before the tip touches the paper and my name forms. Roderich Edelstein. No going back now. The ink is dusted and blotted before the papers are given to Arthur.

I cannot bring myself to meet his eyes as he takes the documents from my hand. I should say something—send some token that this didn't hurt me. "Tell her I wish her luck." I suppose that will have to do.

Apparently my cousin knows how empty my words are for he responds with the equally hollow statement of "I will." With those two words the doors close behind him and Francis, the sound echoing around my empty mansion.

I reach for the violin, unsure of whether I intend to play it or return it to its stand. When I pick up the bow and place it against the strings I find my hands are shaking too much. The music I need to play will not come on this instrument. Gently, the Strad is returned to its proper place. I turn to the piano—perhaps that will do?

As I approach the grand, my eyes land on the flowers. The bouquet is the same as all the rest in this empty shell of a house: tulips, her family flower, surrounded and supported by my edelweiss, resting in an elegant cut glass vase. It's the same arrangement as the one she carried on our wedding day. It represents everything that is now gone: the blending of our households, the blending of our lives.

Before I process what I'm doing, my musician's hand has closed around the vase, sending it, and the arrangement, crashing against the stone eagle on the mantelpiece. The water splashes across the thick, expensive carpeting, petals and leaves falling, side by side with glass shards, to scatter across the edelweiss-engraved hearth. It's all I can do not to swear aloud.

What was I thinking? The servants aren't here, except for Maria, but she's gone home by now. I don't even know where, but—stepping from the parlor—I find a rag and return to begin cleaning up the mess I've made of things. Would that it was so easy to repair the disaster in my life as well…

The water was nearly gone to begin with, thank heaven, but there are numerous flower remains scattered across the stone. It looks like some mythical battle took place here.

Damn! What was that? I pull back to look at my hand, carefully withdrawing the tiny shard of glass caught in the heel of my palm. I have to finish cleaning this. Ignoring the continued pain, and the gradually increasing number of cuts on my hands, I complete the job.

Rocking back on my heels to survey my work I find that I haven't the energy to try again. The stone edelweiss on the hearth and the white petals from the arrangement are now spattered, not with glistening shards and iridescent droplets but with small specks of red from my hands.

Running the rag over the hearth one more time cleans most of the blood away. I drop the cloth onto the small pile of glass shards and flower pieces before retreating from this echoing catacomb and out into the sunset over my gardens.


	2. The Tulips

Disclaimer: The characters within the following story are not mine, their dialogue is mine though. The plot itself is not entirely mine either due to it being loosely based off of the Treaty of Saint-Germain-en-Laye.

A/N: The characters are referred to by their human names (Elisa being the shortened version of Hungary's).

* * *

I wake to birdsong and the gently humming wind, accompanied by the gentle percussion of the fountain in the garden. The sunlight warms my face, waking me with a lover's kiss. What on God's green earth am I doing out here? Why would I be out here and not inside curled beside my wife? Oh. That's right. I don't have a wife as of yesterday.

I sit up, stretching in the late morning sunlight. Glancing into the fountain I'm sitting beside I grimace. The well-kept aristocrat who greeted Francis and Arthur yesterday is nowhere to be found. My blue frock coat lies beside me in a bundle, apparently used as a pillow. My waistcoat is unbuttoned, my cravat untied. All that remains of the gentleman of yesterday is the shell of a human being today.

I pick up my spectacles from where they are sitting beside my coat. The sun's far too bright, the day far too cheerful. How anything can emit such joy today I don't know. The birds are out, there isn't a cloud in the sky, all the flowers are in bloom.

My fingers rub the sleep from my eyes. When I remove them the first thing I see are the tulips. _Her_ tulips. Asking a gardener to take them out is impossible—none have returned. A trowel was left carelessly here. My long fingers close around the handle of the shovel, pain flickering across my palm at the pressure on the dozens of tiny cuts that crisscross it.

The dirt, wet with the mist from the fountain, clings to the knees of my tan breeches. My fingers seek the base of the tulips as surely as they've sought the piano keys in the past. Aha! My left hand closes gently around the base of the first tulip plant. The tip of the hand shovel bites into the dirt just beside where I know the bulb to be buried. All it will take is a couple of swift motions to remove the bulb and the first of these plants will be gone. Edelweiss will suit this part of the garden better, anyway.

I look over my shoulder. I swear I can hear laughter. _Her _laughter.

_Elisa laughed as I brushed my hair back from my eyes, smearing dirt across my brow. Rocking back on my heels I looked up at her with a mock frown. "And just what is so funny?"_

_ "You. You're always so careful with everything, and yet when a gardener could do this just as easily, probably better, you insist upon planting the flowers." She shook her head slightly, the smile still lighting up her features. Her long sandy-blond hair hung loosely around her shoulders, held back only by a green kerchief. "Why do you do it?"_

_ I couldn't help but smile, the lines around my eyes crinkling just a bit. "Because I know you love these flowers. I wouldn't trust anyone else with them." I placed the last of the tulip bulbs in the ground, covering it carefully and rose, brushing my hands off as best I could without staining the white shirt I was wearing that day. Rolling down my sleeves, I picked up my discarded jacket, offering my beloved bride a kiss._

_She returned the embrace, smiling up at me, that smile I thought I'd never lose. "I love you."_

The trowel still rests securely against the bottom of the stem. I can do this. I can remove these flowers and get that damned memory out of my head.

Devil take it, who am I trying to fool? I can't remove them, any more than I can forget her. No matter what she's done I can't take them out. They were _her_ favorites, planted by my own hands. Just as much as I cannot take off my wedding ring I cannot dig out these bloody blossoms.

Rising, I return to my place by the fountain. The cold water of the pool stings as it bites into the crevices of my hands and re-opened wounds. Once the cuts are cleaned I remove my steel-rimmed glasses, setting them gently aside and splashing the water across my face. It doesn't do much to change the reflection I see broken before me. As I use the end of my cravat to dry both my hands and face the dirt clings to the once pristine material.

"You're a fool, Roderich." I barely recognize my own voice it is so rough, cracking from hours of silence. "She's not coming back. You've lost the allies you had and you've lost her. You'd best learn not to expect them."

It's official. I've gone mad. I'm talking to my own reflection now. As though it would listen and answer me back. As though _I_ would listen. I always was a fool. A stubborn fool. Right from the beginning. I never should have taken her to wife.

The last couple of years have been strenuous upon us and upon our marriage—we've neared the breaking point more than once. Apparently Elisa couldn't stand it any longer. I never imagined it like this though. Not even a note from her explaining the real reason she was doing this to me. After all, we've worked through worse situations than this, haven't we?

It appears that was an illusion. The Incident caused a break too great for us to mend. It's best to let her go. No need to fight at parting as well. No more battles. No more wars. No more wounds.

Oh, the irony of that. Of all the stupid things I've done of late this ranks among the top three. Breaking the vase was one thing, cleaning it up without protecting my hands was sheer idiocy. I can't retreat into my music as I wish to, not with my hands as they are now. They hurt far too much to even consider the piano, much less the violin (which is a much better expression of heartache). The slightest pressure on my fingertips sends pain shooting through the tendons all the way up to my elbows. To curl my fingers for the piano would be torture and to even think of holding a bow and pressing the fingerboard makes my arms ache. I'll get the music back with time, but my wife is gone for good.

A sideways glance at the rippling reflection in the pool reminds me of the state of disrepair I am in. Hardly suitable for a man of my standing, whether alone or not. Gingerly my fingers seek to retie my cravat, loosely for I fear the temptation to intentionally strangle myself should it be any tighter, around my throat. The ends of the neck-cloth are stained with blood and all the starch has long since deserted it, leaving it to hang limp.

The wounds on my hands sting as I dip them into the water, yet again, and attempt to smooth down my dark brown hair. Damn it, that one blasted lock still won't lie flat—it never has, not since I was a boy. At least the rest, mostly, behaves and I now look less like an angry hedgehog.

My hand, coming to rest on my jacket, pulls back at how wet it is from a combination of the fountain's mist and this morning's dew. Ah well. My arms find the sleeves and the rumpled jacket completes my ensemble as I move to button my waistcoat.

My collar, cravat, and cuffs have long since lost their stiffness and I look little better than I did moments ago. I'm still unshaven, but the only way to remedy that is to return to the mansion: that huge, empty, mausoleum, which is haunted with the ghosts of happier times and filled with the bones of memories. No. I can't go back yet. The vagabond look shall have to suffice for the time being.

My hand, of its own accord, dips back into the fountain's pool. The water eddies around my sensitive fingers, dancing with them to the song of a sorrowful spring day. The pain is growing, but it will numb soon. Hopefully, my heart can do the same.


	3. The Brothers

Disclaimer: The characters within the following story are not mine, their dialogue is mine though. The plot itself is not entirely mine either due to it being loosely based off of the Treaty of Saint-Germain-en-Laye.

A/N: The characters are referred to by their human names (Elisa being the shortened version of Hungary's).

* * *

One month, almost to the day, since I signed the papers which finalized the divorce. My mind still stumbles when it encounters that word. I've tried everything to forget. Social situations do nothing to distract me. The notes of Chopin's _Mazurka #32 in C# minor_ swirl around me, my now healed fingers tripping lightly across the keys of my piano. My emotions are as mixed as the tones. The song fits my mood: so many volumes, tempos, and notes that I can lose myself in. It's not as harsh as some of Chopin's music, but it is a fitting song for the marking of the month long separation. The ring on the third finger of my left hand catches the mid-afternoon sunlight from the windows. I still haven't been able to take it off—at least the tulips are gone.

I hope that the dinner invitation I sent to Vash was received. Vash and his family immigrated to here from Switzerland when we were both quite young and the two of us were close friends growing up. Nevertheless, I don't expect a response—I haven't heard three words from him since before Elisa left. Ever since the Incident he and I have been on tentative terms. It still would have been nice to receive a note declining my invitation. The music changes as my thoughts do, to the regretful tones of Chopin's _Nocturne #8_. Before it can reach any form of hope, not that I find much within its strains, a sharp knock echoes in the entry hall.

The sound startles me out of my reverie enough for my hands to come down on the wrong note. Blast, and I had been doing so well. Rising, my mood turning foul with the sour chord, I step out of the parlor into the only room in the mansion I have yet to sell furniture from. The entry is still lavish. The soles of my shoes can be heard for the briefest moment on the marble floor before the sound is muffled by the thick carpet that runs down the center of the hall. Pausing, out of habit, to check my appearance in the small mirror I confirm that my mood will not show through my expression. I hesitate as I reach for the curving door handle. Vash, no matter how mad he may be, would have sent a message ahead. Besides, the knock is too demanding of attention for it to be him. The only person who ever knocks like that would have simply walked in, propriety be damned, unless…oh. The door's locked. The knock reverberates again, followed immediately by a quiet, clipped comment of "He's probably not at home" and a derisive reply, in an all too familiar voice, of "Of course he's home. He's never not."

God grant me patience. I have _no _desire to see the German brothers who are standing on the other side of my front door. Their father immigrated here as a young man, fresh from service in the Franco-Prussian war, and married a woman of the local gentry, gaining the land the brothers now reside on. Their estate—owned jointly due to Gilbert, the eldest, believing it unfair that Ludwig shouldn't have part of their family home simply by right of birth order—adjoins my family land on the northwest border. We grew up together, the three of us and Vash. Ludwig is the more sensible of the two and his company is usually welcome, but even he is undesirable today—especially since he's accompanied by his older brother. Gilbert is nothing but an abrasive irritation. So of course today, when all I wish is to be left alone with my music, they choose to call.

I'm yanked out of my musings by another forceful pounding on my door, accompanied by Gilbert's voice. "I know you're in there, Roddy, open up."

Roddy. No one else on this planet uses that shortening of my name to address me. It adds yet another item to my growing list of reasons for my front door to remain closed and locked, but I can almost picture Ludwig's mortification. Best to save him the embarrassment of Gilbert insisting again. Opening the door just enough so I can still block it with my body, I offer the brothers a frown for the effort. "Don't call me that."

Even knowing them as long as I have I am always struck by the vast differences between the two of them. Ludwig stands impressively tall—his golden-blond hair slicked back, not a single lock out of place. He dresses with military precision—one would swear his suit comes straight from the iron. His blue eyes are attentive, capturing every detail of his surroundings. At the moment they're offering a silent apology and requesting entrance.

Gilbert, in contrast, is small—thin to the point of starvation—he barely reaches his brother's shoulder. His nearly white hair is wild, not combed into submissive precision like his younger brother's. The suit he wears today is missing its waistcoat and his jacket hangs open and rumpled over a white shirt. An iron cross, their father's, is worn proudly on a chain in place of a cravat. His red eyes, a rarity even among albinos, are lit with enthusiasm that bodes ill for anyone it's directed at.

I begin to instinctively close the door again. Perhaps a chair to brace it after I lock it will hold them off. Before I can complete that plan, Gilbert, ignoring both my reprimand in regards to that childish name and common courtesy (never one of his strong suits), speaks. "So, are you going to let us in?"

An excuse, I need an excuse. Nothing comes to mind. Nothing honest, in any case. "I was actually in the middle of—"

Gilbert cuts in on my unformed sentence, "Playing Chopin. We heard."

Devil take it. There's no getting out of this now, is there? How do I always end up with the most unwanted visitors at _precisely_ the moment they are the least desirable? "Is there something I can do for the two of you?"

"We came to talk. Ludwig wanted to see how you were doing." Gilbert shrugs dismissively, but the expression in his eyes belies his indifference.

Well, if they just came to talk… Stepping aside and opening the door I motion them in. "I'm doing well, thank you for asking."

The skepticism in the looks I receive is enough to remind me why I try not to lie to old friends. I'm horrible at it. Doing my best to ignore the gazes, I lead them into the parlor. Once inside Gilbert sits himself down on one end of my red velvet, Louis XVI settee, managing through some feat to take up more than half the piece of furniture with his slender frame. His younger brother perches stiffly at the other end, as far from Gilbert as possible, while still remaining on the same couch.

It certainly says something about them. Even though there are two open chairs, Ludwig prefers the proximity of his brother, as long as he isn't required to be _too_ close. Emotion and sentimentality, while difficult for me, are nearly impossible for him to show. Gilbert, by contrast, has an air about him that lets you know in no uncertain terms, that he could conquer the world if he set his mind to it. Thank God he prefers meddling in lives instead. On the other hand, if he was out conquering the world he wouldn't be sitting in my parlor irritating me by his mere presence.

My hand rests lightly on the red velvet of the chair which matches the settee, but I don't have time to claim the seat before another knock echoes through the house. Who on earth..? "If the two of you will excuse me a moment?" I beg leave of my unplanned guests. Ludwig nods very slightly and Gilbert shrugs. I'll take that as permission.


	4. The Proposal

Disclaimer: The characters within the following story are not mine, their dialogue is mine though. The plot itself is not entirely mine either due to it being loosely based off of the Treaty of Saint-Germain-en-Laye.

A/N: The characters are referred to by their human names (Elisa being the shortened version of Hungary's).

* * *

Crossing the entryway for the second time in the last quarter hour I approach the door, musing over the knock. It was abrupt, not quite tentative, but certainly doubtful. The person seems to have pulled his hand back quickly, trying to decide whether to draw attention to his presence or not. I open the door with equal caution, throwing that to the wind in shock at who stands there. "Vash!"

Vash, looking crossly at me from under his cream-colored beret, hasn't changed much. His suit is out of date, but well cared for—I don't think he's had a _new_ suit in the last six years. He and his family always _were_ too cheap. Their house is elegant, but they're thrifty, well aware of the judgment that follows them as _nouveau riche_ immigrants. His suit has been mended expertly, I can hardly even see the repair that I know is there (having been present when it was torn). My eyes drift to Vash's belt. No, not to the belt. To the holster holding his pistol at his side. Leave it to Vash to bring a firearm on a social call. He's always suspicious, dangerous. He's grown up distrustful of the people around here, and even facing me—a childhood friend—his expression is guarded. His beret is the only part of him that slouches—his posture almost as rigid as Ludwig's. His face doesn't change expression from a frown as he speaks. "You did invite me to come today, did you not?"

"I…yes. Do come in." The surprise of having him arrive without sending a message ahead is finally beginning to fade as I step aside to let him enter.

I can almost see Vash's contempt for my furnishings—he's always told me they're too expensive and I could easily get by with cheaper furniture and rugs. All I can think of late is how grateful I am that they are worth as much as they are. Certainly the Persian carpets beneath our feet are worn, and won't fetch their full price, but they are still enough to fend off my debtors for now.

Once we reach the parlor, Vash sits down in the red velvet chair I was hoping to occupy. That leaves me with the elegantly carved mahogany chair to his left. The cream and silver upholstered chair used to be one of a set of four, the rest of the set was sold piece by piece to pay my lenders. My attention is drawn from this line of musing as Vash speaks again.

"I sent a message and was told it had been delivered to your housekeeper."

I look at him from the corner of my eye—he's out of focus thanks to my glasses—he isn't even looking at me, his expression in his perpetual frown as he stares at the brothers across from us. "The cleaning woman or my old housekeeper?"

He finally pulls his glare from Gilbert and Ludwig to look at me in surprise, "You have a new one?"

If he would come out of that reclusive hermitage he calls his estate occasionally he would know these things. Forcing a thin smile I respond, "I was required to dismiss the staff three weeks ago. There's a woman who comes in twice a week to clean, but otherwise I have no servants."

To anyone who doesn't know him Vash seems unconcerned at that revelation, but I see the slight stiffening in his shoulders, the way he bites the inside of his lower lip. It's the same habit he's had all our lives when something troublesome arises. Usually it's followed by a change of the subject so that he doesn't have to think about it.

"You didn't mention there would be other guests." Ah, there it is.

"I wasn't expecting there to be."

"Then what are they doing here?"

Oh, Lord. Can he be any more blunt? Just because I've been wondering the same thing doesn't mean he needs to voice it. "I was about to ask that when you arrived."

Gilbert cuts in, indignation lacing his tone, "We're right here, you know." He's not accustomed to being ignored, and apparently he dislikes it as much as the next person—perhaps more. I can't help the victory I feel at that, considering the number of times he's talked over me or dismissed a logical argument.

Ludwig starts to rise, his habitual response to his brother's surliness being to leave. I shake my head slightly, "Do stay. It's a logical question. What _does_ bring the two of you here, besides a concern for my mental health?"

The abrupt change of tone which Gilbert takes startles me. He leans forward, elbows on knees. "I have the most brilliant plan you've ever heard. It can't go wrong!"

Oh, dear. Where have I heard those words before? Oh, that's right. His investment scheme that cost me most of my land, my wife, and my servants. I'm still trying to pay off all I owe from that. I manage, somehow, to speak calmly. "Isn't that what you said about the last debacle?"

He recoils as though I struck him a physical blow, but recovers with his usual rapidity. "This one's different. There's no way it can fail. I promise it'll get us back the money we lost, and more besides."

I can almost feel Vash's disapproval. One glance in his direction is enough to confirm it. "Roderich, didn't his last brilliant investment plan cost you half your land and your wife? Which reminds me—"

"Not now, Vash, please." The last thing I need is one of Vash's "you've been a fool" lectures. I divert the conversation, turning back to Gilbert. "He has a point. What would possibly possess me to join you in another venture?"

And now he's on his feet. This man is incapable of sitting still for five minutes. His hands gesticulate madly as he speaks. "You could get your land back. Can't get you Elisa again, but maybe another wife."

Did he honestly just say that? Why that insufferable git! My gaze darts to Ludwig, an expression I've worn often during our youth gracing my features. He learned several years ago how to translate it: control him or leave. The blush that blooms across his pale complexion evidences that at least one of the brothers still has some tact left. His hand catches Gilbert's suit jacket and he gives it a sharp tug, accompanied by a reprimanding frown.

Which of course Gilbert ignores, batting Ludwig's hand away. "What? It's true!" As though I don't know that. As though I've forgotten that it was _his_ bloody idea that cost me my marriage.

"That doesn't mean you have to say it!" Ludwig's horrified whisper is barely audible to me, but Gilbert obviously hears him. This would be _almost _humorous to watch, if I wasn't seething at Gilbert.

Oh, he's turned his attention back to me, how delightful. "Come now, you can't tell me you're not at least a little bit tempted, Roddy."

Oh, yes I can. I can tell you that and a whole lot more, but I still have a semblance of manners so I won't. I don't even realize the name he's used until I hear a soft chuckle from Vash. Blast it. Gilbert really is intolerable. Best to ignore the term of address, it's an argument I won't win. "I most certainly can. I don't have anything more that I can afford to lose."

That statement appears to have the wrong effect as Gilbert's smile turns victorious. "All the more reason to do it!" He turns expectantly to his younger brother, still seated stiffly on the settee. "Ludwig's interested. Aren't you, brother?"

The startled look of surprise on Ludwig's face is a wonderful imitation of a gasping fish. Gilbert actually hesitates. He may be a nuisance, but I know from experience that he does care for his brother. If he thinks this is a good plan, it's because he thinks it will help the younger of them more than it will help him. "Ludwig?"

The response he receives isn't confident. "I…that is…It _is_ the family money and so…and I…" He won't even look at his elder brother as he speaks.

I won't cut into this, neither would appreciate it. Vash, apparently, isn't as concerned. He speaks from under his beret—the hat sloping down over his right eye. "Let me see if I comprehend this correctly. You" –he points at Ludwig— "are willing to let him"—a vague gesture in Gilbert's direction without looking at him, calculated to irritate the albino— "take your family money, or what's left after the last hare-brained investment scheme, and do God only knows what with it. And you"—a sharp glance in my direction, one of those that makes me feel I'm guilty of some heinous act regardless of actual innocence— "are actually considering this?"

Neither Ludwig nor I respond as Gilbert is frowning rather severely and it's best not to get in the way of his temper. Vash seems to have finally recognized the expression directed at him (there are some days I question the intelligence of my Swiss friend). "What?"

"No one asked you." Well, at least he hasn't lost his temper yet; his tone is more sullen than angry. Now if only we can keep it that way. Ludwig appears to have the same thought, voicing his brother's name softly. Hopefully it will keep the easily agitated man calm.

My thoughts are pulled away from those concerns as Vash turns to me. "Did I understand this interaction clearly?"

I'm not certain he understands _anything_ clearly. Certainly not what he's done to what little peace there was in the room. Not that I'd tell him that. "Almost."

"What am I missing?"

What is he confused about? I wouldn't take Gilbert's advice again. I don't think—although the chance to recover some of my lost land is a tempting prospect. I pull quickly away from that thought, answering with my first instinct. "I wouldn't invest money in another of his schemes even if it cost me my life." Vash doesn't believe me. I can't say I blame him—I don't believe myself.

I turn back to the brothers as Gilbert flops down on the settee, his expression stormy, muttering in German. I know the language but can only interpret a word here and there, and the sentence "_Sie sind alle Bastarde!_" seems to be repeated several times. I take this to mean that he lost whatever argument they were having.

Ludwig's concerned, every line in his body evidences that: the slight crinkling of his brow, the way he leans toward his older brother, the fact that he's sitting right next to Gilbert, rather than as far from him as the furniture allows. The elder sibling, however, is defensive: his arms crossed tightly over his chest, chin down, crimson eyes glaring at the room in general. I can't hear what Ludwig's saying, but if I had to guess? He's apologizing. God only knows what for. Gilbert deserved whatever the younger brother said in the first place.

My gaze drifts again to Vash, whose only response is to roll his eyes. "Is he alright, Ludwig?"

The taller of the two pulls back from his plea to his brother, answering me with a nod. "He's fine."

The glare he receives at that would kill a lesser man. I'm surprised that the quiet blond has become the target of his brother's temper. That happens rarely. "Don't answer for me."

Time to step in and give my surly guest a different target. "I didn't ask _you,_ Gilbert, I asked him."

The look in Ludwig's eyes rests somewhere between relief at no longer being in the line of fire and horror that I would willingly put myself there. His brother responds more angrily than I expected. "_Gehen Sie zum Teufel_!"

His insistence on not only swearing, but swearing in German has never been something I've understood. Certainly it puts him in contrast with his brother who—though he is in possession of the more German name—disassociates himself with his heritage as much as possible. Speaking of Ludwig. I glance from Gilbert to him and back. I will not be insulted in my own home. It's best the two of them leave before I say something I'll regret later. He understands the silent order and rises. Grabbing his smaller brother by the arm he pulls him to his feet before the elder can protest. "Good day, Roderich. And you too, Vash. It was good to see you both again."

I rise, escorting them to the door and wishing them a safe journey home. I get no response, but I didn't expect one. Turning back to the parlor I find Vash leaning against the door frame. His expression is unreadable as he looks me over before speaking. "Are you considering it?"

Leave it to him to hit the mark on the first try. I don't know how he does it, but ever since we were children all he has to do is look at me and he can tell what I'm thinking—almost before I do. Lying is of no use, so I answer honestly. "It wouldn't be a bad idea to locate some money, but I don't trust Gilbert's plans."

"Well, in the end it _is_ up to you. But if you do decide to take his advice again—and considering what an imbecile you were last time I don't doubt you're seriously thinking about it—you could lose _everything_ you still have."

Vash may be blunt, but at least he's truthful. I was a fool last time and I can feel the same tempting inclination rising again. "I know that. What I have isn't much, so we shall see."

"We shall indeed." Not the most reassuring thing he's ever said to me, but it could be worse. He glances around, seeking a change of subject. "Now, I believe the invitation was to dine?"

Invitation? Oh, right. The reason he's here in the first place. "Yes. If you'll follow me, the kitchen's well stocked."

The surprise that breaks through his normally icy façade almost makes losing the servants worthwhile. "We're cooking it ourselves?"

I can't resist a wry smile at that. "And who else will? The cook left with the rest of the staff."

Vash finally graces me with an almost imperceptible twitching of his lips (which might be called a smile) before his features immediately revert to their normal sour look. "You'll injure yourself if you try. I'll work with the stove and knives." Ah, Vash. You never do change.

* * *

Meadowlark4491: Alright, folks, that's a wrap. I hope you enjoyed it. Let me know what you thought, thank you for sticking with me through this one.


End file.
